


reaching out

by leeloo6



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: College, Drug Use, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leeloo6/pseuds/leeloo6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>`Of course you know. That’s why I chose you.’  </p><p>Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes, even if it hurts his head to do so. `<i>Chose</i> me. As if.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	reaching out

The world is a pristine place. It’s built of blocks, layered bricks that form such a tedious whole.

No, cross that.

The world is a terribly messy place. Its layers overwrite each other and collapse one into another, leaving trails of dust and bones in their ridicule attempt to form a whole.

No.

The world is a self-destructing spiral of redundance, both clean and unclean, tedious and heightening. It’s a place that grows by constantly feeding on its own lack of consistence.

How profound; no.

The world is a place.

The world is a place is a place.

Sherlock scoffs and exits his mind palace with his coat flinging dramatically behind him.  
\---  
He doesn’t know what the hell the world is, but he doesn’t exactly find himself caring, either.

There is something precious, almost holy in shooting cocaine alone. There is something even more heightening in shooting alone while there are people on the other side of the wall, drinking and dancing and drowning their personal afflictions in collective oblivion. In the moments of suspended languour before the cocaine has spread through his entire system, Sherlock revels in the strange feeling that this gives him- the blinding awareness that he is nothing like them, the dimmed, almost-conscience of needing their approval anyway.

His blood is set alight and there is suddenly so much beauty to sink his teeth in- no, not beauty, beauty is trite, yet what he feels is an almost transcendence of all things equal with themselves, now voided of their tedium and painted together in an explosion of violent colour.

Sherlock doesn’t want to quiet his mind, although he’s aware of how much trouble that would save him, and of it resulting in a considerably smaller amount of people hating him.

What he wants is this- mind accelerated, a whirlwind washing over him in violent waves, a thunderstorm in the centre of which, ironically enough, he can find the tranquility that the world, in all its textbook plainness, cannot offer.

It washes through him; there is not a single flaw in the fabric of existence.

He breathes.  
\---

When he opens his eyes, there is a boy sitting in the doorframe. In the dim light coming from the bedside lamp, he’s smirking with the superiority of someone who has just found something equally fascinating and incriminating. Sherlock has never seen him before.

‘Sorry, I thought this was the bathroom,’ he says apologetically. It sounds fake. Sherlock doesn’t bother fixing his not exactly appropriate position- legs crossed, spine arched back and head hanging from the sofa backrest, and rolls his eyes instead.

‘Out,’ he demands in monotone.

‘What, there?’ The boy gives a short laugh in disbelief- it, too, sounds fake, too perfect to be genuine. ‘They’re just a bunch of idiots, aren’t they?’

Sherlock turns abruptly and looks at him, raising an eyebrow. The obscurity of the room works in his disadvantage. There is only so much he can deduce in the dark, but the boy’s voice and manner of speaking have already given on enough.

‘How would you know?’ he asks.

‘Because I’m just like you,’ the boy says, and he enters the room only to sit down on the sofa uncomfortably close to Sherlock. ‘Now, show me how you did that.’  
\---  
It turns out that the boy’s name is Victor and that he is nothing like Sherlock. He is charming, well-spoken and everybody adores him.

‘Do you envy me?’ he asks one time, and Sherlock wrinkles his nose in displeasure.

Well, of course he does.

Cross that; it turns out that the boy’s name is Victor and that he is very much like Sherlock. Although he is charming, well-spoken and everybody adores him, it is only pretense. He’s haughty, thinks himself better than others and is so very, very bored. He’s brilliant, and Sherlock thinks he might be a sociopath.

‘Do you envy me?’ he asks and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

How could he? They’re just the same, after all.  
\---  
Sherlock wants to drag him out of the room by his pretty blonde hair and remain alone with himself again, just where he belongs. Instead, he shows him how to shoot and watches him do it with unsteady hands. His reaction is mesmerizing; he looks like he’s having a religious experience, and Sherlock knows exactly how that feels. 

He doesn’t exactly like Victor, but he is young and alone and instantly shutting everybody off has yet to become an automatism.  
\---  
‘You do know that I was bluffing, right? When I told you I’d never done drugs before,’ Victor says one evening while they are returning from a particularly inane party where Victor had introduced Sherlock to everyone as his ‘talented friend’, all while Sherlock had been fighting a ludicruous sense of satisfaction from appearing on his face and leaving him as vulnerable as an open book.

‘Please,’ he scoffs. ‘It was obvious. It doesn’t go that smooth for first timers. It’s either terribly worse or much better than what you put on.’

Victor sighs dramatically. ‘Anyone else would’ve fallen for it. I still remain a remarkably good actor, despite the circumstances.’

‘For the masses, yes.’

Victor chuckles and it’s honest now; it sounds soft and it echoes of something that only Sherlock can understand, because it’s designed for him. Victor rarely uses his masks anymore when they are together. Sherlock thinks he doesn’t, at least. He is not very certain.

‘But you’re always the exception, aren’t you?’ He sounds happy, almost exalted. ‘And you still have no idea why I did it.’

‘It was a trick. Earning sympathy by feigning vulnerablity and making the other person feel responsible for you, proud that they taught you something new. People like that. It makes them feel important.’

‘Wrong answer,’ Victor says, ‘though I do agree with your explanation. But there’s something you’re missing.’ Sherlock looks at him with a startled expression, and it’s a rare and precious sight. Victor silently congratulates himself on the particular choice of words that make his friend turn from blatantly self-assured to outraged and defensive. It’s a pretty thing, witnessing that transition.

‘What did I miss?’ He sounds urgent, needy.

‘You were lying there, such a gorgeous sight. When you were shooting, you looked as if you were in ecstasy. More than human. I wanted to see it again, hear you talk about it, make you describe it. I wasn’t disappointed,’ he answers in a bout of sincerity. Sherlock blinks.  
\---  
One evening, Victor enters the room and locks the door behind him. He finds Sherlock spread out on the sofa in his usual manner, with dilated pupils and an intense gaze that makes him think maybe, maybe today.

‘Alone again,’ he says on a tone of subtle reproach and sits down, straddling Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock frowns, but doesn’t protest. He tilts his head towards the wooden box on the coffee table. 

‘Suit yourself,’ he says.

Victor watches the needle as he pushes it beneath his skin, feels the buzz of adrenaline rushing through him, feels Sherlock’s thin yet strong body beneath him as he lays down, covering him from neck to toe.

Sometimes he’s afraid he’ll replace the cocaine with narcotics- the consuming, wonderful thrill of being brightly alive and taking in everything at once with the lazy reverie of being too little of himself. He knows it’s comfortable. He likes to indulge, but this- Sherlock, this, it’s everything he truly wants, despite what he is tempted to give in to.

‘I have a burning curiosity,’ he says with his cheek cradled in the curve of Sherlock’s neck.

‘Hmm,’ Sherlock answers, absently tracing circles with his fingertips in Victor’s hair. It’s a quiet intimacy that they both fall into like pieces of a puzzle, without any warning, without any question of right or wrong. 

‘You’ve tried almost every drug possible. You crave new sensations, but you’ve never actually shagged anyone, although you’re aware that you’re missing out. Tell me why.’ 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, his fingers slowly reach inertia in Victor’s hair.

‘You’ve received offers, I suppose,’ Victor says after a while, moving his body against Sherlock’s to adjust his position and planting a feather kiss on the sensitive skin of his neck.

‘Only from people who didn’t know me,’ Sherlock answers and there is a hidden bitterness in his voice, but also a trace of something akin to sadness, something that makes Victor want to laugh at him and comfort him and fuck him all at once.

‘I know you,’ he whispers against Sherlock’s lips, and kisses him.  
\---  
There are a million sensations to process- Victor’s warm tongue in his mouth, the hands in his hair on his neck on his chest, the soft lines of Victor’s body melding with the angles and the corners of his own form, the erection pressed into his thigh, hips moving against his own. It’s all new, it’s all too much, and too much is simply wonderful.

Victor chuckles when Sherlock arches back and pulls him down. 

‘Such a pity,’ Victor says between kisses,’that no one’s had you before.’ He winds his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and pulls gently. ‘But I will,’ he continues, biting Sherlock’s lower lip, ‘and you know what that means, don’t you?’

‘Hm?’ Sherlock asks and though his voice feigns disinterest, his shallow breathing and the evidence between his legs don’t agree.

‘That I’m going to have you again,’ he says, unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, ‘and again,’ grinding their hips together, ‘and again, and it will be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.’

There is charm and languour in his voice, but also something else. Honesty, adoration.

Sherlock shudders. He knows he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t fall for it all, should see the situation as it is- crafted delight, plastic seduction. But he doesn’t find himself caring, not in this particular moment, because after all, all human interaction is rarely more than that.

From then on, everything turns into unadulterated sensation that he takes in, one piece at a time, yet fails to fully process. Doesn’t need to. It’s all bright and clear, washing through him in waves- Victor’s tongue circling his nipples, mouth pulling gently until he is hard in more than one way. The stripes that he licks on Sherlock’s abdomen, ascending to his neck and then kissing him wide, as if he wants to devour him whole. Sherlock knows Victor has planned this, has imagined it late at night with only his half-broken mind to witness, but there is always contingency, the pulsing heat of the current moment that rattles through one’s mind and shatters all expectations. 

Victor’s hands are not as steady as he’d wish as he undresses Sherlock, leaving trails of kisses along the way. He is more needy than graceful when he takes him in his mouth. Sherlock feels the suffocating warmth around him and nails digging into his hips and can’t help but buck up, feeling like a hormone-driven teenager as he searches for something, for anything to hold while he is spiralling down, down.

It shouldn’t feel this good. It’s so simple, so basic. Sex is based on instinct, it brings conscience and reason down to immediate sensation, turning man into a mere machinery set on self-gratification. There is nothing heightening, nothing of beauty in it. It’s just bodies using each other to obtain pleasure. People should at least keep it as something private, not share such vulnerability with another human being- it’s degrading, destructive.

It’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

They end up rutting against each other in quiet need, and Sherlock feels every moment of it down to the end of his nerves, feels his skin on his neck pull under Victor’s mouth, his body prickling with the sensation of a closeness he hadn’t imagined so liberating, so intense. Victor comes with his hands tangled in Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock follows him, drowning in the points of light that they create out of their own stumbling bodies and minds, revelling in the post-haze of moments being lived and spent and shot into awareness.

Sherlock thinks of Victor’s words, of the show that he is putting on and of the truth behind his masks and knows that, out of the two of them, Victor is not the one who has him.

 

\---  
‘People say you’re a sociopath. They just love using fancy words without having an actual idea what they’re saying. Makes them look smart.’ Victor’s voice is half-mocking, half-sultry and sometimes, when he can read behind the façade, Sherlock thinks that he is naïve in a very dangerous way.

He is spread out on the sofa as Sherlock is doing his assignment for the first class of the day. It’s barely morning, and Victor pulled the curtains aside to let the sun in, equally pleasant and hateful. Sherlock doesn’t protest.

‘Am I not?’ he asks, without lifting his eyes from the paper, his voice laced with mocking undertones. Victor doesn’t miss them, but keeps talking anyway.

‘You might display some characteristics, but that’s hardly enough for a diagnosis. You’re childish, easily bored, think yourself better than others and have trouble relating to them. You can’t really empathize. But these traits are common to your average genius with autistic tendencies. Sociopathy is manipulation, pathological lying and inappropriate social behaviour. You’re asocial, not antisocial. You don’t lack emotions, you just hide them. Whoever thinks you’re a sociopath hasn’t done their research.’

‘Hmm,’ Sherlock replies casually, but his attention is focused on Victor now. ‘Including myself?’

‘Including yourself.’

‘What am I, then?’

‘Troubled genius.’

‘Oh, really.’

‘Pretentious git.’

‘Ha.’

‘Mine,’ he says, and Sherlock smirks.  
\---  
‘What is life?’ Victor asks one hour and one joint later. Sherlock is still at the desk.

‘I don’t know, do I look like God to you?’ he asks skeptically.

‘Yeah. Yeah, you do,’ Victor answers, exhaling slowly and watching the smoke ascend towards the ceiling in lazy circles.

\---  
When Sherlock opens his eyes, he feels his body heavy and his head fuzzy, as if floating in ether. There are immaculate white walls and the clinical smell of the private hospital that he’s spent enough days in as a child to recognize now. 

`Morning, sunshine,’ a voice says from somewhere in the room. He turns his head and sees Victor standing on a chair in the opposite part of the room, his body in an uncharacteristical slouch and his eyes dark with lack of sleep. He sounds tired, weary.

`What happened?’ Sherlock asks, closing his eyes back to shut off the world.

`You overdosed, idiot.’

`Ah,’ he murmurs in response. That makes sense. Victor snorts, but he sounds resigned more than anything else.

`Always so good at giving a damn about yourself,’ he says. `You know, by the look of things I always thought that I’d end up here first. I mean, look at me.’ Sherlock looks.

`You look like a wreck,’ he observes.

`Yeah. Now it’s because you’re an asshole. Another time, it would’ve been because… well. You know.’

`Do I?’ Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

`Of course you know. That’s why I chose you.’ 

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes, even if it hurts his head to do so. ` _Chose_ me. As if.’ 

Victor doesn’t say anything, but his smile encompasses all the sadness that he’s capable of and for once, Sherlock finds himself not minding whether he is right or not.

\---

Summer comes as a perfect opportunity. Sherlock doesn’t know if he would’ve mustered enough will to do it otherwise.

`You’ll call me, right?’ Victor asks on a sweet voice a day before they leave home.

`No,’ he answers simply and plants a chaste kiss on the other one’s lips. He feels Victor smile; he hasn’t caught on yet. 

For a genius, sometimes he can be really stupid.  
\---

It doesn’t take much to peel Victor off his skin, like nicotine patches that’ve long worn off. 

He still thinks of him whenever he gets high, remembers his snarky replies and pretty face and the way he looked at him like he was the single best thing in the world. He still thinks of it sometimes and it hurts, except that it doesn’t really.

Classical conditioning; it’ll be easy to get rid of it, once he decides to.  
\---

The world, Sherlock realized, is a very lonely place where human beings never really own or choose or fix each other, no matter what they decide to delude themselves with. A merciless host to the briefest of moments when your own misery melds with another’s, turning into comfort.

And this knowledge, for now, is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I started a long while ago; it's an overused scenario, but it was fun to explore (aaaand resulted in something that I'm probably more attached to than is necessary).


End file.
